


Love is Poison

by ludivine



Category: God Eaters - Jesse Hajicek, Original Work
Genre: Desperation, Empath, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sad, True Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludivine/pseuds/ludivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His voice is rough, “You knew a storm was coming and you came anyway. Stupid boy.”</p>
<p>“I knew you’d be here,” I whisper.</p>
<p>“Stupid,” he repeats, but there’s affection in it, I’m sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Poison

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to put this work up first because currently it's one of my fav's and you should always start with a bang. It was inspired by a certain book some of you might know. Let's see if you can guess it. Answer is below. Also, this is my first work on AO3.

Love is Poison

There was something lovely about the desert. It takes a certain kind of person to understand its beauty, I think. To see the barrenness, and find life. To see the isolation, and find peace.

My family didn’t understand my desire to buy a house out here. I suppose it makes sense, the closest town was an hours drive away and very little in between. My father nearly took my head off when he found out it was where I was disappearing to every month. Said it was too dangerous. The irony of that statement never fails to amuse me. Anyways, the real reason I stay out here is only partly because I find peace in the desert’s brutal isolation. Something – no, someone – can only be found in these parts and that’s what I’m waiting for.

In the fading light of the desert comes an intense darkness. After I eat a meal of stew and a sort of pocky corn bread, I curl up against my dog Hamish on the couch. There isn’t much to do when you don’t have Internet, but most of my time here isn’t spent dawdling. There always seems to be something to do, hunt, fix, or clean. But right now I settle for dozing with Hamish’s black and white snout on my chest as he squeezes in next to me on the tiny couch.

“Spoiled boy,” I admonish.

He wags his tail at my voice sweetly and licks my hand. I can feel a small flicker of his deep affection for me under my fingertips. An all-encompassing love only dogs seem to achieve. I continue stroking his fur until I start to drift off.

I’m awakened by a prickle of awareness under my skin. My heart beats loudly in my chest as I sit up, running a hand through my brown hair. Hamish is laying on the floor now but he’s wide awake, ears alert but not alarmed as he stares at me. And then it happens: a flash of bright white light and a loud crack of thunder. Jumping up, I run to the window. It’s pouring rain, violent, and the sky is a mysterious storm green and I’ve never felt so happy. I laugh and it comes out a sob until I cover my mouth with my hand, calming myself down.

Hamish whines softly, I feel his worry like a gray cloud and I pet his head reassuringly. 

I pace as I wait, too wound up to sit. The storm rages on outside my window and my house rattles ominously but I’m not worried. My desperate glances out the window and towards the door are enough for Hamish to stare at me like I’m insane, tail wagging only in response to my excitement.   
An enormously loud crack of thunder distracts me for a moment and I marvel out the window at the bright flash that precedes it, painting the desert strikingly pale. My heart aches in my chest painfully at the sight and I feel like crying.

At that precise moment, the door swings open, framing a tall, lean figure with shockingly long, black hair. His skin, in the places you can see it, is dark chestnut brown, lovely, smooth and golden warm. His eyes are dark and deep as they catch sight of me, and I ache for him. Sobbing, I throw myself around him, noting the quiet groan. He’s soaking wet and cold as he wraps around me in return. I can feel his breaths against my neck, soft and quiet. His voice is rough, “You knew a storm was coming and you came anyway. Stupid boy.”

“I knew you’d be here,” I whisper.

“Stupid,” he repeats, but there’s affection in it, I’m sure.

“You’re hurt, Kieran!” I say, touching his chest and swallowing hard as what I thought was wet rain, is blood. My hand is covered in it, “Jesus, what the hell happened?”

He holds my wrist tightly, eyes narrowing on me as he shuts the door with the other. His green eyes look dark black and I reach out to him, brushing the surface of the source of his pain. Sensing it, he bares his teeth at me like a wolf, “Don’t,” he roughs out.  
I glare at him and pull my wrist from his grip. But seeing his eyes and his skin, pale and trembling, I let it go. His right hand clutches his side and he pants and winces as we walk. He’s hurt and in pain but he’s not weak. Never weak.

I guide him to the bathroom, having him sit on the toilet as I gather supplies from the cabinets. When I look at him again, his eyes are closed as if meditating. I crouch between his knees and I’m struck by how beautiful he is, as I often am. His lips are full and perfect bowstrings on his face, albeit set in a frown. His skin is smooth and perfect, strong and soft like velvet. His hair falls in long black sheets, a curtain of darkness. His cheekbones are high but there’s no mistaking that he’s a male, his energy screams wild and untamed like the stallions or jackals that run through here.

He doesn’t move an inch, like a statue and his eyes have a faraway look in them. Sighing, I gently peel away his soaked leather jacket from his body, taking care not to touch his wound. It’s a slash on the left side of his abdomen, like someone sliced him with a knife. I flare in anger at the thought of someone hurting him, and my fist clenches. He notices and his green eyes open to my face blankly. Pursing my lips, I ease his black shirt off of him and he winces to be free from it, cursing and panting from the effort.

I touch the edges of the cut softly and he hisses.

“Sorry.” I abort. His skin his feverish and warm but the wound is not infected yet. Does he have a fever? I glance at him from my position between his knees. His gaze is steady but weak on my face. He looks exhausted but his eyes still spark with that intense intelligence I always see in him. 

I have to lean onto one of his knees to clean the wound and I blush. I can’t help it, and he snorts. His fingers, long, callused and dexterous go up to bush my cheek. I glare at him but let him do whatever he wants. His fingers slide into my hair and my heart beats that much faster. I can feel each movement of his hand in my hair, pulling gently at my scalp as I lean into him. He seems preoccupied with it, pulling sharply when I apply too much pressure to the wound as we both hiss. 

“You okay?” I ask him.

He nods easily, “Are you going to stich it?”

I shake my head and his hand goes with it, “No, I’m going to heal it.”

His eyebrows go up, “Mattie.” He admonishes.

“I’ll be careful,” I say.

I focus on healing him and I cup my hand over the wound, sending energy to it. He groans, but it’s not pain. Between us, any contact magically can be a bit overwhelming to say the least. I can vaguely feel his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently but it’s disjointed, like I’m out of my body, like it’s a memory. A sharper squeeze and a rough push from his own energy pulls me out of it. When it’s a bit harder than he thought, a flicker of fear pierces him but soon I’m out and panting, leaning against his leg and trying to shake out the fatigue. 

He growls, “Learn how to control that, will you?”

“Well, shit, Kieran, you’re welcome thanks for the gratitude.” I ground out.

He rolls his eyes but sighs, “If you keep doing that, one of these days you’ll get stuck and die. Is that what you want?”

I rub my face and lean against the tub.

“What?” he asks.

“It only happens with you,” I finally say. Might as well tell him. His eyes narrow but he says nothing. I can tell he wants me to go on. “Whenever I heal anyone else I’m lucid and I can control it. But with you, I don’t know Kieran, it’s like my body sees you as me. I loose control and start to heal everything wrong with you and I get stuck.”

His fists clench and his face grimaces like he hates the idea of it. I wince but don’t try to read his emotions. He’s incredibly and furiously stingy about them and me being anywhere near his feelings. I’ve only ever caught tiny glimpses of what he’s going through. For an empath, especially one of my level, I can’t begin to explain how annoying this is. 

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Why?” he asks, annoyed. “Why do you always say that?”

“I don’t know, Kieran!” I snap. “Maybe it’s because I always feel like I’m the one at fault around you!”

He pauses.

“Whatever,” I sigh, standing. “I’ll boil water for a bath. You’re filthy.”

When I drop off the first pot he’s combing the water through his long hair. I stutter as I see it, watching the light reflect off of it. Half the time I think Kieran’s hair has a life of it’s own. 

When I drop off two more pots, he’s naked and in the tub. I gape at him, shamelessly drinking my fill of smooth dark skin. All thoughts of anger and frustration suddenly escape me.

He cocks a perfect eyebrow, “I thought you’d appreciate my nakedness.” He smirks lewdly. Ah. There’s the cat-like mischievousness and sharp wit coming through. 

I smile slowly, “Is this you’re fucked up way of apologizing? Because it’s working.”

He cocks his head, smile wicked, “Why would I apologize?”

“Ass!” I hiss, laughing. 

His smile is checked but lovely nonetheless, that is, if you’re into wolf grins. I lean against the tub and wet a washcloth, touching it against his skin. I can basically feel my face light up, I’m sick with it. I rub it in smooth circles against the skin of his shoulder, chest and neck. He takes it with a smirk like he’s used to it. And we are used to it, to an extent, bathing together is just another perk of his presence. He brushes his hair over his shoulder to give me more room and it’s like moving a curtain, its so heavy and thick. 

He washes everywhere else dutifully, relaxing in centimeters as I wash him slowly. After a while he’s hands stop moving and he surrenders to letting me wash him. His eyes drift closed and I make a noise of approval. 

He is incredibly lean and tall, with legs that go on forever. He’s well muscled and fit like a runner but with a rather impressive array of scars, pale and clear on his brown body. 

I send nothing but soothing emotions towards him. I continue washing his chest and shoulders, moving to his back, rewetting the washcloth once it dries. I can’t help but brush away his hair, just to touch it, hands trembling. It’s always so long between when I see him. I whimper and lean my head against his jaw, “Fuck.” I curse, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “You can cry.” 

I cry for a long time against him, his hand runs through my hair soothingly. His emotions are jumbled and forever hidden and he’s quiet so I have no idea what he’s thinking. I sob into his neck and he murmurs, “Shh, just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” I sob softly, holding onto him. “I don’t know what to do, Kieran. Please don’t leave me, again. Please.”

I lean back, sniffling, and he cups my face, gently wiping away my tears as they come, “Kieran… I can’t…”

His face is furiously blank, like he’s trying hard to keep it that way and I growl, “Kieran! Don’t you dare do this me!” He sets his jaw and it ticks, his green eyes are moody and purposely despondent. I let out a cry of frustration, “Why do you always do this?!” 

“Because I have to!” he thunders.

“You don’t have to do anything!” I yell. Desperately, I say, “Kieran, I lo-“

He kisses me, hard and bruising. He kisses the words out my mouth roughly and our teeth knock together. I rip away and he stands fluidly in the tub, stepping out. The angle and his shoulders and the jerkiness of his movements tell me he’s angry.

“Kieran,” I try again, pissed off now, “I lo-“

“Shut up!” he snaps, turning to glare at me acidly as he grabs a towel.

“Why won’t you let me say it?” I growl, standing too.

He snarls at me and takes my wrist, leading me out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. He’s completely naked but expertly confident like he walks everywhere nude. He pushes me to the bed and I topple onto it, “Kieran-!”

He’s suddenly on top of me, undressing me. His warm, smooth skin becomes my whole vision and his smell fills me. I gasp as his lips kiss my neck exquisitely. My toes curl and I moan at the feel of his teeth worrying my pulse point.

“You know,” I pant, clinging to his shoulders, “You’re not going to be able to avoid the conversation through sex, all the time. We really need to talk about this.”

He chuffs a laugh against my skin, dark and chilly, “I don’t think so, Mattie.” He bites down on my neck and I squeal, hips bucking up immediately, “Fuck!” 

Humming he kisses it and then takes my mouth wonderfully. My brain short circuits and I moan into the kiss. Electricity travels through my body as he kisses my mouth, tongue running over my mouth in a slow rhythm. “Mmm!” I gasp, as he leans heavily over me, our bodies pressed together as he grinds his hips against mine. “Oh, fuck Kieran!”

I can taste his heavy breaths as we move against one another. My fingers work their way to his hair as I remember about his pleasure rather than mine. His hair is silky smooth and heavy and I curl into it, pulling gently. He growls in pleasure and its my turn to languidly kiss his neck as he pants, still rocking against me. 

My other hand trails over the skin on his back, traces the scars because I have them memorized. It’s all so lovely but also too much. I groan aloud and try to talk or say anything but he’s moving fast as if he’s on a mission.

“I hate you,” I growl over the sound of our bodies, pulling his hair. He hisses in pain and the pause he gives me is enough to shock both of us.

“Is that so?” He groans as his fingers wrap around my cock. I’m drooling at his point in more way than one. I whimper instead of answer and try to hold onto to him in anyway I can.

“God, Mattie.” 

I shudder and orgasm. He didn’t even actually penetrate me. Sweating and breathing hard I come to my senses to him staring at me. I can’t pinpoint the expression, he keeps them so veiled. I touch his shoulder and try to reach for his mind but as always, he’s locked down and despondent. 

“Did you..?” 

“No,” he says. He blinks and grimaces, “Mattie, it’s okay.”

I don’t know what he means at first until I feel wetness on my cheeks. I’m crying again. My tears turn into something I can’t control. And sobbing, I cover my face in front of him. I feel very, very ugly and worthless in front of him, like a bug. A feeling of dread overcomes me and I curl naked on my side on the bed. I sob so hard for a moment I think I can’t breathe. 

“Fuck,” I hear him whisper. I can only faintly hear him moving, my crying is so loud. He fingers wrap around my wrist, “Mattie,” he says, “Mattia, Mattie, please, Jesus.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unfinished and inspired by Jesse Hajicek's The God Eaters, one of my favorite books. If you like this then you'll love that book. It can also be found for free online, but if you have the money please buy the book. His work and talent deserves it.


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